The Last Son
by ForEru'sSake
Summary: As Finarfin, the last son of Finwë, looks out over his people, the Doom of Mandos ringing in his ears, he thinks of all that has happened, and he makes an important decision. One that changes his life forever.


A/N: My apologies for any language inaccuracies, English is not my native language.

 **The last son**

 _"The Valar have spoken."_

The words pierced him to the core. They reminded him of what he had tried so hard to forget. They reminded him of the wrongness of it all.

They reminded him of Finwë, whom he was loath to call his father, killed by the hands of the Elder King's mad brother, now buried in the courtyard of an abandoned fortress. Of Indis, who was supposed to be his mother, who called him her son, but had neglected his education and, with her impassion, driven him away from Tirion, for which he was still grateful every day. Of his older brother, or half-brother, as Fëanáro insisted on being called, who had insulted him so many times, both to his face and behind his back, and who had rallied the Noldor to this damned cause, but whom he still loved deeply. And above all, they reminded him of the Silmarils, the very things that had started it all.

Unlike his brothers, he had never believed in their cause. He had left Tirion, not because of his brother's jewels, nor because of the Second Children who would awaken in Middle Earth as the Elves once had, who, Fëanáro had said, would rule over the land that they, the Eldar of Aman, were meant to rule by right of birth. He hadn't left Tirion to take revenge on Moringotto, who was out there somewhere, for the murder of his father. He had left Tirion because of his children. Because they, each for their own reasons, wanted to go, and he felt he owed it to their mother to at least try and bring them back home.

And how hard he had tried. He had always been the peacekeeper in the family, or, as Eärwen used to say, the only sane child of Finwë. When Fëanáro and Nolofinwë argued, it was their little brother, not their father, who would step in and separate them. When they fought, he was the one to take all the blows. But the youngest son of Indis, who looked like a Vanya and spoke like a Teler, wasn't worth Fëanáro's time, unless he got tired of shouting at Nolofinwë. And when he did, the barbed insults he spit in his youngest brother's face were more vicious than any he would ever throw at Nolofinwë. The sons of Finwë were like a hurricane and the youngest prince was its eye. A tranquil presence in the midst of chaos, always trying to limit the damage.

But even his patience had its limit. Whenever he could, he ran away. He fled to Alqualondë, the only place where he had ever felt truly at home. And now that home lay in ruins.

As he stood, the words of the Doomsman still ringing in his ears, looking out over his people, he spotted his brother and his children. He locked eyes with Findaráto and in his oldest son's eyes he saw fear, but at the same time, they were alight with determination.

The same light had shown from the eyes of the Teleri, as Fëanáro and his followers had wrecked their city. He had seen that light in the eyes of their king, whom the blond Noldorin prince considered to be more of a father to him than Finwë had ever been. The images of the massacre at Alqualondë were burned into his memory, never to go away. He didn't notice his son motioning for him to come along. All he could see then was the fire. All he could hear were the cries of the dying. All he could smell was the blood that had coloured the water of the Swan Haven red. Having arrived long after the hosts of Fëanáro and Nolofinwë, he walked through the city as the frantic battle was already coming to an end. On the quay he saw the sons of Olwë, at least, those of them who had survived, the ones he used to call his brothers, looking out at the sea, after their stolen ships. When the oldest turned around and locked eyes with him he saw the rage, the heartache, the feeling of betrayal, written on the prince's face. _Traitor_ , the look in his eyes screamed at the son of Finwë. As the Telerin prince took a step forward, a feral snarl on his face and murderous intent burning in his normally sparkling blue eyes, now clouded with grief and anger, the Noldorin prince turned and ran. He fled, like a coward. He ran through the bloodied streets of Alqualondë, his home, the city he loved, as its princes and king chased after him. He felt the searing heat of the burning buildings. He heard the agonized screams of the injured and tasted the copper tang of blood as he licked his bitten, torn lips. As he fled from the city he heard Olwë call after him. _Hinya!_ The word rang in his ears, drilled itself into his skull and he didn't understand. He didn't understand why this king of a broken city, a city wrecked by his son-in-law's people, would still call that same son-in-law his child.

He looked at his son again, who was still waving at him. But he didn't see his motions, he couldn't hear his calls. He could only see just how much he looked like his mother. He felt the guilt eating away at his consciousness as he thought of her. As he thought of his beloved Eärwen, receiving a message telling her that her city lay in ruins, by the hands of her husband's brother's people, that her children had fought to protect it, only to turn away and follow those same people as they continued on their ludicrous quest, that her husband had been chased out of the broken remains of her home, by the broken remains of her family, to follow her children into exile, never to be seen again. He knew then that he could not do it.

He stood, motionless, as the Noldor bustled about around him. The last of Nolofinwë's people passed him by. They were afraid, they were all afraid. With Fëanáro's people, the Doom had fallen on deaf ears. But Nolofinwë's people had heard, had understood its implications and had understood the consequences of the choice they were facing. As the youngest son of Finwë looked on he saw his brother, a good leader, strong personality, every inch the perfect Noldo, ever their mother's favourite. He saw how Nolofinwë tried to encourage his people, but he also recognized in his stance and tone of voice how truly terrified his older brother was.

Fëanáro's people went on because they wanted to, Nolofinwë's people went on because they were afraid of the alternative. Would he, the last remaining son of Finwë, always known for his patience, never for his courage, have the courage to turn back? To lead those who had realized the error of their ways back to Aman? To beg forgiveness of all whom they had wronged?

As he looked out over his people and locked eyes with his son again he saw the confusion in his oldest child's eyes. "Atar! Are you coming?!" Findaráto called out.

No answer was needed. His firstborn only had to look into his eyes to know. _I'm not coming with you._

 _I'm sorry._

The new king of the Noldor of Aman had lost everything. First the father, mother, brothers and sisters of his blood, then those of his heart. He had lost his home, he had lost his face, he had lost his love. He had known after the massacre at Alqualondë that he could not convince his children to remain, he had known then he'd lose them too.

But he set himself a new goal, to be the best king the Noldor had ever seen so far, and he clung to it as if to a lifeline.

Arafinwë Ingoldo Finwion didn't take the coward's way out. He turned around and faced his fears. He might not be stern Finwë, or passionate Fëanáro, or loyal Nolofinwë. But he was Arafinwë, Noble Finwë, sweet Finwë, calm Finwë, strong Finwë, and even though he had just lost everything, he still had something that his father and his brothers didn't have.

 _Hope._

A/N: Thank you for reading this :)


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